


Drink With Me

by involuntaryorange



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Drunken Confessions, Drunkenness, Fluff, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-02
Updated: 2016-03-02
Packaged: 2018-05-24 09:59:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6149878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/involuntaryorange/pseuds/involuntaryorange
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames's plan to get Arthur drunk doesn't go how he was expecting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drink With Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [flosculatory](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flosculatory/gifts).



> flosculatory, co-winner of the Oscar pool, asked for (among other things) drunk Arthur. I love drunk Arthur.

Eames isn’t too proud to admit that he had ulterior motives in getting Arthur drunk.

Not _awful_ ulterior motives, of course. He would never _take advantage_ of Arthur. But if Arthur got a little bit sloppy and wanted to make out a bit… it’s not like Eames would turn him down.

Eames had seen a lot of men get pissed in his lifetime, and if anyone was going to be a slutty drunk, it was Arthur. Beneath that buttoned-up, slicked-back, humorless exterior, Eames _knew_ that there was something soft and warm and wet and— well, the point is, alcohol would dissolve that shell, and maybe Arthur would build it a bit thinner next time.

So he bought Arthur a few drinks, waved off his half-hearted protests about needing to wake up early the next day. “It’s only 9, darling” became “It’s only 10:30, pet” became “It’s only 1, love, the night is young.”

Which is why it’s now 3am and Eames is holding back 11 stone of recalcitrant point man before he can start a brawl.

“He said Die Hard 2 was better than Die Hard 3, Eames,” Arthur protests, struggling to free himself.“That is _inexcusable_.”

Eames thanks the powers that be that Arthur’s coordination decreases considerably when he’s intoxicated, because he entertains no illusions that sober Arthur wouldn’t have him pinned on the bar’s sticky floor within seconds.

“I’m sure he’ll realize the truth without you hurrying it along,” Eames coos in Arthur’s ear, attempting to soothe him. It works surprisingly well; Arthur suddenly goes limp, and Eames scrambles to reorient his grip so that Arthur’s body doesn’t flop to the ground. He nods apologetically at the target of Arthur’s wrath and maneuvers Arthur onto a stool, holding him upright.

“Do they serve pancakes here?” Arthur asks.

“I don’t think so, love,” Eames answers, and when Arthur’s face falls he actually feels _guilty_. Like it’s somehow his fault that this dive bar in San Antonio doesn’t serve all-night brunch. “I have some crisps back at the hotel, though.”

Arthur wrinkles his nose and waves his hand toward Eames’s face in what Eames assumes is an attempt to poke him. “Crisps. We call those ‘chips.’”

“Right, of course. Chips.”

Arthur shakes his head violently. “Chips. We call those ‘fries.’”

Eames decides that deceit would be acceptable in this situation. “I have pancakes back at the hotel. Let’s get you out of here.” Arthur, suddenly reinvigorated, tries to scamper away, but Eames grabs him by the back of his shirt while he settles their tab and gets a bottle of water from the bartender. Then he herds Arthur into a cab and all but pours the water down his throat.

Arthur is thankfully quiet in the cab, staring out the window with his hands folded in his lap. Every so often he turns to look at Eames, as though checking to make sure he’s still there. The cab drops them off and Eames ushers Arthur through the hotel lobby and into the elevator, and when he presses the button for Arthur’s floor, Arthur squints at him.

“Are you coming to my room with me?”

“Only to make sure you get safely to bed.”

Arthur snorts at that, and Eames can’t tell whether it’s a “yeah, right” snort, an “I’m not a baby” snort, or just a random drunken noise. But the doors slide open on the fifth floor and Arthur doesn’t protest as Eames leads him to the proper room and opens the door with the keycard he lifted from Arthur’s jacket pocket (another thing he wouldn’t have managed if Arthur had been sober).

“Wait,” Arthur says, spinning around in alarm as Eames closes the door behind them.

“What?” Eames reaches instinctively for his gun, readying himself.

“Where are the pancakes?”

Eames removes his hand from his weapon and lets his heartbeat return to a normal pattern. “Arthur, I lied about the pancakes.”

“You _lied_?” The expression of outrage and betrayal that crosses Arthur’s face would be terrifying in any other context, but in this instance Eames finds himself stifling laughter.

“I’m afraid so. Now get yourself ready for bed while I get you some more water.”

Eames heads to the bathroom while Arthur grumbles something about Eames being an inveterate liar. He can hear drawers opening and shutting while he fills a glass at the faucet. When he re-enters the main room, Arthur is standing next to the bed, wearing a Mets t-shirt and flannel pajama bottoms, looking vaguely forlorn.

“Here you go,” Eames says, plunking the glass of water down on the nightstand, trying to ignore the way that Arthur’s gaze is silently following him.

As he takes a step back, Arthur makes a small noise of frustration.

“I want to punch you in the face all the time.”

Eames sighs and heads for his coat. Apparently they’ve reached the Eames-directed insults portion of the evening. “Yes, Arthur, I know you—”

“With my dick.”

Eames has a feeling that he makes a comical picture at the moment, frozen mid-step with his mouth open, his brain racing to make sense of what Arthur’s said and making an inconvenient detour to _imagine the scenario_.

Eventually he musters a reply. “I confess I’m not sure whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing.”

“You just, you just always walk around with that mouth. That _fucking_ mouth.”

“I’m… sorry? I don’t have much of a choice?”

“And you _never_ button your shirt up all the way. It’s like working with fucking… David Hasselhof or something.”

“I still can’t tell whether these are compliments or insults.” In desperation, Eames adds, “How about you get into bed and try to go to sleep?”

“Why are you always _teasing_ me,” Arthur whines, climbing into bed. “It’s not nice. You know how I feel about you.”

The world momentarily stops spinning and transfers all of its momentum to Eames’s gut. “I do?”

“I don’t help anyone else put their PASIV line in,” Arthur states matter-of-factly, as though that’s all the evidence Eames could need.

And perhaps it is.

Eames feels acutely guilty for getting Arthur drunk; he thought he’d wind up with a blushed and beautiful man beckoning him toward a dark corner with a crooked finger, not a sad ragdoll of a man spilling his usually-carefully-locked-up guts. He wishes he and Arthur were on a more level playing field; he’d met Arthur drink for drink, but he had about three stone on the man, not to mention a tolerance for liquor born of many long nights gambling away his windfalls.

So instead he’s slightly tipsy, and Arthur is rubbing his face against the hotel sheets like a sleepy kitten.

“Are you going to remember this in the morning?”

Arthur shrugs and burrows his head further into his pillow. “I’unno. Probably.”

“Well,” Eames says. He could leave, pretend that nothing happened, and take his newfound knowledge about Arthur and his _feelings_  to the grave. Arthur, sobered up, would have far too much dignity to ever mention it again, even if he did remember it.

He takes a breath and raps his knuckles against the dresser nervously. “I want to punch you in the face with my dick, too.”

“Really?” Arthur sits up in bed, looking at Eames in surprise. The hair on the left side of his head is all rucked up.

“Really. All the time.”

Arthur smiles his dimpled smile and falls back to the bed, pulling the covers over his face. Eames figures that’s the end of the conversation, so he grabs his jacket, turns off the lamp, and heads for the door.

Before he can reach it, Arthur says, “Eames.”

“Yes?”

There’s silence, then, and Eames is just starting to wonder if Arthur has fallen asleep when his quiet voice cuts through the dark:

“If I don’t remember in the morning… will you remind me?”

Eames lets out a slow breath. “Anything you want.” He opens the door gently, letting in a ribbon of yellow light, and as he leaves the room he whispers, “Good night, darling.”

Just before the door closes, he hears Arthur mumble, “Good night, Mr. Eames.”


End file.
